


Never Before

by orphan_account



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were all pieces of a puzzle; and Naminé’s piece of puzzle was made of heavy burdens.<br/>Part one: her designated role. (Witch of Memories, pulling apart, putting together, but never like before. Never mending. Witch of Memories and bearer of regret, pain and loneliness.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Before

**Author's Note:**

> Naminé-centric. It’s a strange fic, so I don’t think much of it—I like the idea behind it, but the original idea sunk beyond many others. I hope you enjoy this, anyway. Critique is very much welcome!

In the first time of her existence (days? Weeks? Months? She could never tell), she often dreamt dreams she could not remember. While they almost left her like inept, they did leave her with a bitter aftertaste on her tongue, on the hindmost part where the sides of her tongue easily touched her molar teeth. The bitter taste mixed with her saliva, flooding her entire mouth, infesting her gums and the narrowest spaces between her teeth. She did not know what to call it; but she was helpless to it, helpless to waking up with her mouth turned bitter, helpless to the dry retching and helpless to the hand clutching tightly at her throat. On mornings like these, she would have liked to turn off her breathing, she thought. She would like to turn it off, as if there were a button to do that. She should have been able to do that, but she was not. She knew she was an automaton, had never been anything but (the man that found her, DiZ, called her like this)—yet, she could not. She could not find the button.  
She was here, did not know why; existing seemed as pointless as ending her existence. She did not know the meaning of the word _desperate_ , but its makeup— _des-pe-rate_ , three syllables and its pronunciation—seemed to fit, strangely.

  
So she closed her eyes, thought nothing, smelt nothing, and went on existing.

  
\--

  
(Something she had dreamt and not remembered:

A blue sky opening up above her with the sun burning her shoulder blades red, skin taut and peeling; sand tickling the heels of her feet; cool water against chapped lips, sliding down her parched throat; late afternoons spent chasing unknown friends over a beach. A star-shaped fruit held in three different hands, uncertain glances and shy smiles and strong, beating hearts imploding with affection. A promise made _to always stay together, we’ll find each other_ —

images blurring together, faces blurring together, no longer distinguishable—

all a mess in her mind. A colourful mess she did not know what to do with. Her dreams moved so fast that she barely had the time to catch them, to even think this, _I remember this!_ ; every time she tried to reach for a picture, her hands were empty, fingers having reached straight through the intangible illusion. She was left staring at nothing, head full and hurting with so many things she could not remember. Head full and hurting with emptiness, as this was what was always left at the end.

It was with nothing she was left with, trembling lips asking for something she did not understand the meaning of.

 _we’ll find each other_.

Whom _do you want to find?_

_always stay together.  
_

_And where_ are _you? Where are you now?_

When there was no answer, she thought: _Never before have I felt—_

\--

Somewhere between escaping the man DiZ, walking around with big eyes and observing strangers and things and being caught again by other people—instead of ‘continuing her existence,’ somewhere between it all, it had started to be about endurance for her.

\--

The people that caught her, she soon realised, were just an extension of the puzzle board, similar pieces like her but with different shapes and edges. She had realised that she was a piece of something bigger very soon; in the time she had been free (days? Weeks? Months? She could never tell), she had liked to lay down on the ground, grassy or stony or sandy, and look up at the big canopy of the sky; all the stars glowing and clouds shifting in the endlessness above them all; she and the people and things she had seen and observed and the people that caught her: everyone and everything must all be tiny and insignificant in the space of bigger things.

Maybe this strong realisation was the reason she got to play this role.

\---

The puzzle worked like this: each of them was a piece of it and they would all have to meld together to make the piece whole. The picture was majestic; its lines flowing on and on, its corners eluding eyesight; many tiny glances back and forth only allowed the beholder to piece the frame together to a whole. As pieces of the puzzle, they were not allowed not see the whole; they would have to serve their purpose, willingly or unwillingly, for this was what they were made for.

In the frame of the picture they were all trying to find their counterpart, accidentally brushing other pieces not meant to belong to them. The story had to unfold and it had to unfold in a certain way—there was a magnet at the core of the puzzle, pulling each single piece into a designated direction.

They would all inevitably have to meet their counterparts. Meet their counterparts and meld into one another, leave their singularity behind to become a whole, eventually.

Each of them was shaped uniquely, made to fit other parts. Finding another part allowed the story to go on. The lines of a framework were instilled with specific scenes of a story and if the story was to go on, the correct sequences have to correlate.

\--

They were all pieces of a puzzle; and Naminé’s piece of puzzle was made of heavy burdens.

Part one: her designated role. (Witch of Memories, pulling apart, putting together, but never like before. Never mending. Witch of Memories and bearer of regret, pain and loneliness.)

\-- 

When she first met Axel, she realised immediately that the man’s piece of puzzle was extraordinarily shaped.

Some did indeed have an extraordinary shape, allowing two different pieces to fit; but upon meeting, they would clash violently and throw each other into opposite directions, for the lines of their frameworks did not belong.

The man with bright red hair and acid green eyes held an impossibility inside of him; his framework was made for another person but the shape was not right, and his framework was functioning as a hindrance for other pieces to find one another. Naminé had yet not realised what _being whole_ contained, but Axel spoke to her occasionally, being the only one to bother giving her a hint about what was actually happening here, in this white castle. He seemed to do it because he considered it fun (playing people out against each other; the ever-treacherous trickster with a grin big enough to be real), _nothin’ else to do in this boring place, yanno?_

It frightened her at times when he leant in too closely, his eyes absorbing all the blue of her eyes, muttering about the shade of blonde not being the right one. The face was wrong anyway, he said, but they both had “the kicked puppy look going on.” Naminé watched Axel smile (different from his grin) and it was horrific, because someone like her, like him, like all the other people in black coats—she had learnt that they could smile, yes, but they could not smile and _mean_ it.

Axel did.

He did not yet realise that, but he would, all too soon.

And this was when she started to think that maybe once they were whole, there could possibly be anguish, misery, anger and loss. The idea developed itself as Naminé watched Axel interact with Sora; for some of them more, for some of them less, but it would be there for all of them.

\--

Different sequences meeting that should never have met; awareness gained that the plot might be different, _if only_.

Naminé had watched over the picture all the time; had whispered “Stop it, you are not meant to be,” voice full of remorse and sorrow that should not have existed, but that did. She had watched over it all the time and never before had there been such a violent pull of two pieces into the same direction (towards each other, no matter where the other one went), such a beautifully violent clash of lines; it was terrible to watch Axel and Roxas’ pieces trying to belong so desperately, turning and tossing and trying again and again and again, but to no avail. It was in their cellular design that they were not made to fit. It was also in their cellular design that the other part should be their half. Made to fit, and yet not.

Again and again, Naminé watched, morbidly fascinated; and she could feel the screaming, the tears, the almost inaudible whispers into each other’s mouths, speaking of things that did not exist, not for them.

\--

Part two of her puzzle piece: Remnant.

Remnant of a thing she never actually knew and never actually was; half-remembered, half-dreamt pulse in a chest that did not belong to her, friends as strangers squeezing at the thing in her chest. Remnant of what used to make her _her_ and not her; dreams as the remnant of the quintessence of _her_.

Feeling like you should have been someone else and not being able to remember… was suffocating.

\--

It was in the white castle with hands on skin slowly spelling misery and threat. She learned that there were different kinds of threats.

For example: Axel’s threat lingered firehot under snarky words and absinthe eyes; his threat was his terrible motivation (blue eyes, blond hair, plump lips) that was burning him up from the inside out, driving him forwards into a slow descent of madness he never saw coming. Naminé had seen the madness in his eyes before it was even there, had sat down one day to draw a black figure with bright red hair opening up a portal to the king’s goal; had seen the ongoing implosion transcending into an explosion—ending in floating black dust. Axel’s threat was his motivation, leading him to a world’s end.

For example: Larxene’s threat didn’t linger. It bristled when someone was in the same room with her, searing sarcasm and malice. She had no motivation other than causing terrible pain; those instances, Naminé saw it in Larxene’s eyes, were the only ones when she could really feel. She pursued those moments like a tempest hungry for killing; storming electricity in her veins, she was quick to sense pain and equally as quick to attend to it. Her element would betray her in the end, Naminé saw it in Larxene’s veins—one day, her veins would be no suitable vessel for all the electricity anymore, her body worn out, and the glowing yellow monster would watch her seize and sizzle to death and laugh at her pain, just as sadistic as its previous vessel.

A lot of things followed the idea of _if only_.

There was a time when Naminé learnt to do it. In a white castle, under white sheets, hands on skin, skin on skin, lips on lips would lead her to learn this (and she would almost believe she could be anything other than an automaton).

She learnt speaking of things that did not exist, not for them—she learnt that she could do it, too.

Marluxia’s threat was different from Axel’s and Larxene’s. His threat was covert and silent and his motivation was power.

His threat was his craving for power; for everyone else, that was.

But to Naminé, his threat was this; seduction in a still room, lithe fingers, burning eyes. An all-consuming sweet smell covering the lies, covering the burns; it was the most potent drug.

Marluxia taught her about threat and misery.

\--

Naminé realised the instant she saw him that Sora was the king; Sora held the crown on his head and he could end it all. He could bring the solution but things were not yet ready for him to do this, so all the pieces of the puzzle had to work together, had to dissolve and become the whole picture, so Sora could walk forward. Sora was what all the pieces carried, Sora was what would be shown if the puzzle were complete.

Naminé deceived and lied under instruction and confusion, but Sora’s heart shone so brightly and he told her _we’ll be friends for real, if we meet again._  
She desperately wanted to believe this (it felt so cold with Marluxia gone)—but she remembered right then that there would be anguish, misery, anger and loss if they were whole again—for some of them more, for some of them less, but it would be there for all of them.

Even for her.

But for all the games she played, Sora wanted to be her friend.

Unfortunately, Sora had to go to sleep first.

She thought: _Never before have I felt—_

\--

Apparently, her journey was far from over; DiZ found her again. The malice in his eyes reminded her of Larxene, the mental incapacity in the sound of his voice reminded her of Axel—his lust for power reminded her of Marluxia.

There was no reason why she should have returned to him; she was not omnipotent, but she had one skill, and if necessary, she could re-write his memory. She liked the mental picture of it; like cutting apart a body, parting the flesh, thick bright blood spurting over her hands; putting the innards into wrong places, stitching the skin back together badly, leaving places open so the blood could sicker out and he would dry up.

Naminé had never quite felt anything like that, and she had only heard of the meaning of the word anger, but its makeup— _an-ger_ , two syllables and its pronunciation—seemed to fit, strangely. In his lengthy tirades, he would boast about having created such automatons as her, such empty little nothings.

She thought back to quiet nights, quick glances, long, dragging touches and unsaid things—thought about having it torn away, ripped apart and thrown away into nothing. Yes, he was right, this _was_ emptiness, nothingness; and she thought that if she could make him feel that, he were to go insane with the madness of it.

She discovered that she might have taken a little bit of Larxene’s yellow monster with her—imagining this was a strange feeling, but not unpleasant. It helped her to calm down.

Naminé ultimately decided to stay with DiZ when another black figure appeared. His name was Riku, he told her, and she had seen him before, only he did not say where, but it did not matter; she recognised the feeling of demise in him and that was enough. It was also more than enough when she heard the words _Sora has to wake up or the puzzle won’t be complete_. It was the first time that anyone ever spoke of the puzzle, and it only drew her more to him; to him, who had to carry a great weight on his shoulders: the weight of having to make sure that the puzzle would be complete.

They both had to attend to this task.

\--

Her disgust for DiZ grew when he ordered Riku to find a boy named Roxas; Sora’s other half. Naminé did not know what to make of this and when Riku came back from his first investigation later on, he explained it to her.

Many things made sense, now; Nobody and Somebody, absence of heart and possession of heart. Riku was a Somebody, Naminé was a Nobody. Hesitantly, Naminé asked if Nobodies could not complete each other, if they really did need their Somebody. Riku had been silent, but then he had said: _This is another inevitability. To complete the picture, we must align the pieces in the right way. The right way can only be achieved if we meld together the Nobody with the Somebody. It is terrible, but it is true._

Her part had been bringing the loss of memory, the loss of identity. Only now, when she realised her task was also melding things together, making things become one—only now she realised it would inescapably result in the loss of everything.

Realising this, she thought: _Never before have I felt—_

\--

Misery was: losing and not being able to forget, with

Every.

Single.

Painful.

Flashback.

\--

She felt drawn even stronger to Roxas than to Riku; Roxas was a fellow Nobody and a terrible fate awaited him. A terrible fate she had to act out. If her allegiance to Sora had not been too strong, she might not have done it.

And yet, she was responsible for many things: her burden was to make sure the puzzle would be complete and with her first task, she had done anything but—the sweet smell in her nose and the feeling of soft rose petals against her skin had been too wonderful—so now she had to do this.

When she saw the figure with blond hair and blue eyes captured in Riku’s grasp, when Riku said something about a redheaded, thin stranger chasing him down—Naminé felt something inexplicable from her chest plummet down into her lower belly. The heavy weight of the realisation of who exactly was before her made her hands shake.

She had thought, if not for her and Marluxia—maybe the two other pieces of the puzzle could rest a little while further together.

She had thought at least they could last the longest that was possible.

\--

The old Roxas had never gotten around speaking to her, and she was infinitely glad.

She was not so glad, however, when DiZ constructed everything new for Roxas; personality, quirks, clothes, friends, surroundings, past and present. Everything Roxas was, Naminé had to drink in to create the next few days as believable as possible for him, so none of the old memories could reappear and reawaken the old Roxas.

It was full of irony. Roxas was not meant to wake up but wanted to (she had seen his angry, hurt “I’m me!” yelled at Riku in his memories) and Sora could not, but should.

\--

When things were bad (like waking up after a not remembered dream, not-quite-there guilt eating away at her guts), her nostrils would flare with a pungent, sweet smell that covered everything; it would cover the sin of her hands’ deeds, make her forget the emptiness the not-remembered dreams caused, erase the forbidden solidarity she felt with Roxas, and worst of all: she kept seeing all of Roxas’ memories, all of Roxas’ past—she kept seeing all of Roxas and Axel—

Worst of all, it would make her sigh and remember for real.

She remembered that Threat was this:

_His long fingers built a proverbial cage around the cheeks of her face, but she never felt trapped; she was his flower, he always said, his jasmine flower. He kept her in his garden, tried to nurture her with promises of everlasting, omnipotent power; it was a long time before he realised that he could find the perfect way to nurture in her pictures; in the nights he would leave his watch to Axel (and Naminé’s breath hitched every time he tried to tell Marluxia of Axel’s obvious motivation, of how he was lying, lying to all of them—but the quiet green desperation of Axel rendered her shameful; what he saw in his eyes reminded her of Marluxia) and attend to her. Sitting behind her, it was almost as though he was not there at all, so silent and unmoving was his figure. After what seemed like endless nights of watching pictures of the beach, the ocean and the sky, Marluxia—he touched her, brought his rough skinned palms to her shoulders and one slid around her neck, the other to her collarbone, up her throat, and his fingers gripped her chin, tilted her face back forcefully and then he kissed her._

_He nurtured her with kisses and more, watched her grow and unfurl for him, shy and quietly brazen when she answered his kisses with a hunger she could not possess, but did. He whispered to her about how she was his most treasured flower, the most beautiful in his garden, how her petals were poisonous for him, and he never dared to speak it: but she knew her beauty was his downfall._

\--

Her resolve was a slowly sinking ship; the heavy water of guilt drenched her legs and pulled her down, and only Riku’s hand of purpose kept her upright, kept her cramped hands moving, fingers stiff, bones aching.

\--

Misery was also this:

_It should have felt like a trap right then; he was one of her captors, after all, but all the sinful moments with him eroded the heaviness in her bones until she could not think anymore. In the quieter moments, she could feel his game waning (worried wrinkle on his forehead ever present now, cheeks more hollow, skin paler), and that was the only time she ever felt trapped with his fingers around her cheeks (for the fingers became bones became dust became nothing). She read a big book then, about a terrible, great war and power games and a ring; there was this woman in there who wanted to be free so very bad, and she broke through the cage trapping her with a violent strike of her sword to an enemy—and she was free then, all her long, rippling golden hair now absorbing the sunlight and not the darkness._

_She thought this might be her; feeling like breaking out of an invisible trap, and her sword would be her crayons and her sketchbook and with a twist of her fingers she could s t o p i t a l l—erase memories, make new ones, make up new places, bring them somewhere else with no game at all—_

_But before she could ever do that, she realised he had lied to her; she was not his downfall, never had been—it was Axel and Marluxia’s lust for power who were the downfall._

_He had been with her long enough to watch her grow; she had been with him long enough to feel him begin feeling, and to stop feeling._

_The only thought in her mind left, when the coldness came back to her: If only he had watched me wither away for first._

_If only._

_Never before have I felt—_

\--

Half-remembered, half-dreamt memories were made of: enduring one’s existence; the absence of purpose; being a remnant; threat and misery.

\--

When she drew now, her hands started to slip.

First mistake: Hayner saying “We can’t be together forever—we gotta make as many memories as we can!” when it was what _Axel_ had said to Roxas, what seemed like forever ago.

Second mistake: sea-salt ice cream atop the clock-tower.

Third mistake: a never-ending sunset bleeding longing.

When she drew now, she could not help but let her hand slip and draw sequences of memories into Roxas’ new, virtual life. Memories of him and Axel. And whenever Naminé would let her hand slip, she would tremble all over and silently plead _please remember, Roxas, please remember._

She had never liked Axel much, but Naminé would never wish the kind of misery she had to carry in her bones on someone else.

\--

In the end, her regret and pain and all the misery did not matter—the picture was whole again, the story played out; the way it was supposed to be.

Only now no one was left to look at the picture; no one saw the splatters of blood, the wet blots of tears never shed, all the chaos the arrangement caused.

No one saw two pieces at the opposite sides of the puzzle burnt to the same degree; a charred black marring the display on top (charred from the inside of the puzzle); the burn on either piece never finished, crudely cut off where another framework began. Only if one laid those two pieces beside each other, they were complete.

No one saw but her; but now she was fading too, at long last, and her forced endurance came to an end.

There was no more pain now, no more demise; feeling the new pulse speed up in her chest, her consciousness faded, little by little.

Her last thought was:

_The price for a heart is my entire being. Never before have I felt—_

 

\--

Kairi wakes up from her dream with a gasp; she touches her strangely hollow chest, feels the organ in there puckering away like a panicked hummingbird.

A little dizzy, she thinks: _Never before have I felt so empty._

\--

A Nobody’s revenge: half-remembered, half-dreamt memories.

 

_..._  
Ring around the rosy  
A pocketful of posies  
"Ashes, Ashes"  
We all fall down!  
...


End file.
